Smallville Tales
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: A series of short stories. UPDATED 082403 with Empress (Futurefic - Chlex romance)
1. Three Little Words

Three Little Words 

by ingrid

~&~

Lex first saw Paris when he was six. 

He didn't remember being impressed by it then. It was just different from what he was used to up to that point in his young life. The long plane ride, the strange old buildings, the way the sunlight tilted differently in the late afternoon -- this was all he noticed. 

His mother didn't feel well after they arrived so he'd been given over to the care of a nanny. A dour Spanish woman who tugged him through the city, day after day, filled with enough resentment for even a six-year-old to understand. 

Enough resentment to make him afraid. 

The disaster of the trip happened while walking through Paris' great underground with its endless tracks and trains winding their way like a basket of snakes through the ancient city. 

It was late in the afternoon and Lex brought his sole piece of childish security with him that day. A tiny brown stuffed bear sat hiding in his jacket, keeping him safe from an uncertain world. His father had a habit of throwing away any toy that seemed to be getting too close to Lex's heart, but this was one he'd missed ... somehow. 

That made it all the more valuable. 

Lex was never sure how the bear got away from him that day. All he could recall was its doleful eyes staring up at him from the rail tracks, its face set with what looked like betrayal. 

It was all his fault. He'd let it fall and the train was coming. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. 

The nanny shrugged as he stood over the tracks and cried. 

"Sus dolores comienzan," she said. She dragged him out of the station, jerking him hard every time he screamed. 

Later in life, Lex remembered the words but didn't know what they meant. 

Until the days after the tornado came. 

~&~ 

The only sound in Lionel Luthor's hospital room was that of his respirator. 

The falling beam had broken his back clear in half, crushing his pelvis as well. Slow swelling of his spinal cord and massive internal organ damage had complicated matters considerably. He'd lost consciousness six hours after his arrival at Smallville General and three weeks later there had been no change. 

Except for one. 

Lex sat down at his father's bed side, hands folded neatly on his lap. It was his first visit. 

"The buyout is complete," he said to the inert figure, who lay grey-pale against white sheets. "And you should know that I'm starting my own company." 

*Whish-click* went the breathing apparatus that stuck out of Lionel's mouth like a plastic serpent. 

Tape covered his lips and eyes. His hair was scattered over the pillow in thin strands of gray and brown. His beard hadn't been trimmed either and his nails were lacking their usual manicured look, outgrowing for the first time ever the pads of his pale fingertips. 

"I'm calling it LexCorp. It'll be in direct competition with LuthorCorp. I'm already looking into ways to delve into the pesticide market share, obliterating your stranglehold. Cadmus Laboratories is now wholly owned by me, by the way. You've been bought out." 

*Whish-click.* 

"My eventual plan is to take over LuthorCorp. I'm sure you've guessed this already but it'll make my victory more complete if you and I are clear on this point from the beginning. Once that's accomplished, you'll be marginalized. Not completely, because then you won't know the sting of humiliation as I have it planned for you, the same humiliation you've put me through all too often. No ... some low-level functionary position is waiting for you, somewhere where you'll have to answer to me on a regular basis. If you want to hold onto all those _things_ you've spent your entire miserable life accumulating, that is." 

*Whish-click.* 

"I think I'll make you manager of Plant Three in Smallville. Yes, that's what I think I'll do. Would you like that ... Dad?" 

*Whish-click.* 

"Dad? Come on, surely you're not at a loss for words now." 

But he was. No words were forthcoming, nor would they ever. 

Because Lionel Luthor was dead. Dead for the past hour and a half. 

It seems the doctors hadn't lied to Lex about the brain death. No lies about the respirator being just for show so his son could say his last good-bye. Because Lionel Luthor, his father, his enemy --- his life -- was dead. 

It must be so, Lex thought vaguely. 

He wouldn't have stood for that sort of talk otherwise. 

Lex rose slowly, then stepped into the bathroom. Washed his hands thoroughly and avoided the mirror successfully until the very last second, catching a glimpse of himself as he turned to leave. 

There was nothing doleful about his expression. It was an unchanging as the night, as closed off as death itself. If there was any betrayal at all, it was only in the sound of his old nanny's voice, murmuring to him in Spanish, her voice filled with weary hatred. What was it she'd said again? 

Those three little words it had taken a lifetime to understand? 

__

Sus dolores comienzan. 

Ah, yes. That's what the old bitch told him as he stood weeping for all he couldn't keep, no matter how hard he tried. For all he loved, despised and ultimately lost ... that being the first. But not, no never, the last. 

__

Sus dolores comienzan. 

Your sorrows begin. 

~fin~ 

The next tale to follow tomorrow 


	2. Three Kisses

Three Kisses 

by ingrid

~*~

Their first kiss was what Chloe would consider more of an anti-kiss than anything else. 

A "get it over with" moment, instigated by herself while in the background the Kents' cows lowed plaintively in the fields. 

Clark fumbled over her mouth with a tongue and lips that knew no better. She placed her hands firmly against his chest, holding him at least six inches away, just enough to keep complete control. 

"Okay?" she asked, when he was forced to draw a breath after what felt like an eternity. "Now, about this town ..." 

Their second kiss was in front of a trailer owned by someone neither of them trusted. 

Kyle Tippet, the man who'd supposedly attacked Lana the day before, held Chloe's hand and soothed his way into her mind by telling her things she already knew. 

_You need Clark. You want Clark. And he's right here in front of you, waiting. You want to kiss him, don't you?_

Of course she did. It was too tempting to resist. 

When Chloe awoke from her fog there was nothing left but a taste of mint in her mouth and the memory of Clark's hand upon her arm, this time holding her at bay. He hadn't forgotten their time in the barn years before and on the way back home, she pinched herself repeatedly, more out of punishment then a reality check. 

What goes around comes around, doesn't it? 

After that there were years of pecks, lies left on each other's lips, while in the background Lana Lang hovered above them like an avenging angel, with her sweet smile, perfect hair and inescapable presence. 

Chloe refused to meet the threat. Clark refused to dismiss his fantasy and they kissed no more after that. Not really. 

Until ten years later when Chloe stopped by the offices of the Daily Planet, a lifetime of experience and a dozen bylines under her belt. She was hot; the freelance reporter who'd gone around the world twice by the age of twenty-two. The one who'd stood up to politicians, drug lords and kings without so much as a blink -- sometimes armed with nothing but her smile. 

Clark was exactly the opposite and when he stood in front of her with his stooped shoulders and glasses that were five times too big for his face, she motioned him toward a private corner, her heart pounding. 

"Let me tell you my secret," she whispered. "Come closer." 

He had to bend to hear her. She pulled him down even further still before taking his mouth with her own. 

His tongue and lips finally knew their place. The mint was replaced with the bitter tang of coffee and too many hours without sleep. 

Neither held the other back, and yet ... 

Clark was missing. He was, simply put, no longer there. His pure essence, the thing she'd remembered every waking moment since the day they'd decided to go their separate ways was gone, replaced by something else. 

Something _alien._

Something Chloe no longer understood. 

She pulled away, horrified. This was no joining of passions, no consummation of something they'd waited for too long and it was certainly not a promise of anything to come. 

It was ... nothing. 

And Lana Lang was no longer to blame. 

Chloe stumbled back into the harsh light of the newsroom. Felt mortal embarrassment as Clark slowly took off his glasses and carefully cleaned them on the edge of his suit jacket, wiping away their heated breath without so much as a blush. 

The lights in the office were far too bright. Chloe had to shield her eyes against their glare as the stinging tears fell. 

"What _are_ you?" she whispered. "What the _hell_ are you?" 

"Your friend," he replied as he placed their third, and final, kiss upon her forehead. "Forever." 

~*~


	3. Seeing Clearly

Seeing Clearly 

by ingrid

~*~

He took a deep breath before entering the room. 

With the breakfast tray balanced in his left hand, his right hand was still glued to the doorknob. All it needed was a simple turn but there was nothing simple at all about what he was about to do. 

In fact, it was so complicated, it felt like he'd forgotten the simplest things. 

Like how to breathe. 

Taking his time, he managed to enter without upending the tray or himself. It was quite an accomplishment. A shame this would never go down in any of the history books Fate was waiting to writing for him, its pen poised and already dipped in poison. 

"Lex?" His father's voice was as strong as ever. No surprise there. "Did you remember the newspaper?" 

"Yes," he answered. "I have your breakfast too." 

"Excellent." Lionel Luthor shifted beneath the comforter, straightening himself against the headboard. "Let's get started then." 

The tray table was already in place. Lex put the food in front of his father, removing a superfluous rose vase. He pulled up a chair and sat, the latest version of The Daily Planet already folded to the business section. 

"Shall I start with the headlines or the quotes?" 

"The headlines. And why did you take away the flowers?" Lionel asked. 

Lex stared at him. "How do you know I took away the flowers?" 

"I could smell them when you put the tray down. I can't anymore." Lionel made a lazy gesture with his hand, then smiled. "Amazing how the other senses compensate for the loss of one, isn't it?" 

"Yes, it is amazing. Do you want them back where they were?" 

"No." Lionel chuckled. He sounded liked the craftiest blind man on the planet. Long fingers steepled across his chest as he waited expectantly, unseeing eyes half-lidded. "Headlines, please." 

Lex read them off obligingly. Memories of formal recitals and oral exams returned with a vengeance. It was the same plodding voice he'd used to read passages from Oedipus and The Iliad, the bored voice his instructor detracted points from his grades for. He told Lex he made the classics sound tiresome, supposedly no mean feat, even if he was reciting them in ancient Greek. 

He told the instructor to go screw himself -- in Latin. 

It was the first of his many expulsions. 

"Is there anything here that interests you?" Lex asked after he finished. "I thought the Tannerville-Sachs merger was worth noting." 

Lionel snorted. "You would. Read me the article about the Farnsworth downsizing. Is it over four-thousand?" 

"Just under. Thirty-five hundred." 

"Huh. Never mind then," Lionel said crisply. "There's nothing of interest today. Except for breakfast." He felt around the tray for his fork. "What's on the menu here?" 

Lex put the paper down. "Eggs, toast, peaches and juice." 

"Peaches, eh? With cream or without?" 

"With," Lex replied. He inched the plate into what he thought was a better position. 

"With cream. I see." Lionel put down the fork. "Lex," he said quietly. "Give me your hand." 

"Pardon me?" Surely, he must have heard wrong. "What did you say?" 

"I said, give me your hand." Lionel held out his own expectantly. "Come on." 

For the first time in his life, Lex was glad his father couldn't see his look of utter revulsion. He cursed silently. "All right," he said testily, placing his palm right above his father's, still not quite able to touch. 

The hand that grasped his was warm, soft and utterly unyielding. "I want you to know something, Lex." 

He resisted the urgent urge to pull away. "Yes?" 

"I'm not going to die," he said, giving Lex's fingers a quick squeeze before releasing them. "So you don't have to worry." 

"When did I say I thought you were going to die?" Lex shakily wiped his hand on his pants. "I never said I thought you were going to die." 

It was strange how a man could still look knowing even while blind. "I don't eat peaches with cream. That was your mother. Remember?" 

A protest twisted through Lex's gut. "Dad ..." 

A wave of Lionel's hand cut him off. "It's all right, Lex. I just don't want you worrying. That's all." 

"I'm not worried," Lex snapped. "I just thought you'd like them. I won't bring them again, if that's the case." He exhaled heavily. "I wasn't worried." 

"Of course you weren't." A sharp crunch of toast. "Now you can read off the quotes. And remember, if our stock's gone down, it's all your fault." 

Slowly, Lex picked up the paper and resumed his recital. 

* * *

fin 


	4. Understanding

UNDERSTANDING by ingrid  
  
~*~  
  
Once again, Tokyo was under siege.  
  
A screeching roar, a rolling wave of fire and Japan's central railroad was no more. Telephone wires were stretched then ripped in half, as the creature stomped through downtown as if it were made of paper-mache.  
  
The two young men sitting on the Fortress of Solitude's lone couch shook their heads in distress, but more for themselves than the shrieking extras running across the flickering screen.  
  
Pete Ross didn't bother swallowing his nacho chips before exclaiming, "Man, this is cheesy."  
  
Clark dipped his hand into the communal snack bowl. Grimaced with annoyance when he came up with little more than crumbs. "What do you want? I told you the VCR's broken."  
  
"I'd rather watch 'Saved by the Bell' than this."  
  
"No, you wouldn't." Clark tucked the remote more tightly beneath his arm, just in case. "Besides, this is a classic. I think."  
  
Pete rolled his eyes. "Just because it's in black and white doesn't make it a classic. " He pointed at the TV with an orange-stained finger. "Look at the monster. You can see the zipper."  
  
Clark squinted and searched the screen. "No, you can't. It's a rubber suit. Like for stream fishing, except it has a head."  
  
"Imagine what it smelled like in there."  
  
"That's disgusting." Clark shook his soda can from side to side. Empty, of course. He crushed it with a surreptitious squeeze of his fingers until it was no thicker than a cracker.   
  
On the screen, Godzilla wasn't pleased. Another skyscraper was brazenly slapped to the ground.   
  
"So tell me, Pete. Who'd you think would win? Him ... " Clark pointed at the fire-spewing nuclear mutant, "or Darth Vader?"  
  
Pete made a derisive noise. "That's easy. Godzilla would win. He'd step on Vader like a bug."  
  
"Really?" Clark ran a thumb over the flattened can's sharp, skewed edges. "Don't you think Darth Vader could outthink him?"  
  
"Kind of hard to think when you're squashed under a giant lizard's foot. Face it, Clark. Brute strength is the way to go."  
  
Clark's mouth turned a little dry. He wished for more soda but there was none. Not from the broken piece of metal in his hand at any rate. "I don't think it matters how strong you are. If you're stupid, the smart guy will figure out a way to get you ... somehow."  
  
"Not if you kill him first," Pete said. He leaned back against the couch with a sigh. "Can I have the remote now?"  
  
"No. And you don't think that a smart guy could avoid getting killed long enough to take me out ... I mean, take Godzilla out?"  
  
"I guess." Pete's interest in the conversation was waning. He drummed his fingers along the empty bowl. "That's probably why Godzilla crushes things first and asks questions later."  
  
Clark opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of footsteps tapping up the wooden stairs of the loft stopped him. He turned to see Lex standing at the top, dressed in head to toe black, his smile constructed, as always, with cautious care.  
  
"Hey, Lex." Clark nudged Pete with a meaningful look.  
  
"Yo," Pete said without enthusiasm, refusing to turn away from the screen.  
  
"Hey, guys." Lex sounded cheerful, or at least like someone who was trying his hardest to sound cheerful. He nodded toward the TV set. "What do we have here?"  
  
"The first Godzilla." Sheepishly, and Clark shrugged. "The VCR's broken."  
  
"A classic," Lex said. He leaned against the railing, regarding the screen thoughtfully. "First environmental message film, I think. There's supposed to be a warning in there somewhere."  
  
Pete snorted. "What warning? Telling us not to blow up nuclear bombs over densely populated cities? Like we never would have figured that one out."  
  
"There's more to it than just the bombing, Pete," said Lex. "Cataclysmic events can unleash forces none of us can expect or understand, even after the initial catastrophe. Take the meteor shower, for instance. While the immediate damage has been done, we still don't know if or when the other shoe could drop." He smiled cannily. "Who says we'll never see invincible creatures and their foes wreaking havoc across the Earth for years to come?"  
  
"Yeah, right," Pete grumbled. "Smallzilla, the meteor monster that can crush buildings with a single blow of his fist and shoot fire from his eyeballs to burn the countryside to a crisp. Uh, huh. I'll wait till the video comes out, thank you very much."  
  
Clark's stomach dropped, as did the flattened can from his fingers. It landed on the floor with a tinny clunk. He tried to change the subject "Say Pete, why don't we ask Lex who'd win. Um, Lex ..."  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Who do you think would win a fight? Darth Vader or Godzilla?"  
  
Lex laughed shortly. "Darth Vader, of course. Is there any question of it? An evil genius versus a stupid brute? Seems like a no-brainer to me."  
  
He didn't know why, but a chill rolled down Clark's spine at Lex's words. "Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I told Pete."  
  
"Whatever. I don't care what either of you bozos think," Pete said. He snatched the forgotten remote from Clark's lap with a victorious grin. "Ha! Seems like neither brains nor brawn can't save you, Kent."  
  
Clark smiled wanly. Glanced over at Lex who'd quietly moved to the window and was staring out over the fields, lost in thought.   
  
"You might be right, Pete," he sighed. "For now."  
  
~*~  
fin 


	5. The Black Mantle

THE BLACK MANTLE

by ingrid

~*~

Seasons in Smallville changed without warning.

At least that's what it seemed like to the city born and bred, as Lex was. Here in the country it felt like late summer one day, the next it was early winter and Lex shivered in the cold breeze which rushed over him the minute he emerged from his well-heated car. Maybe it was the location of the Kent's farmyard, endless acres of flat land surrounded by nothing but miles of short, stiff stalks of harvested corn, that made the stray winds seem so potent. So changeable.

Lex hurried into the barn. He ducked inside quickly and took a minute to shake the chill from his skin ... his bones. Rubbing his arms helped a little, scrubbing both hands over his scalp helped much more than he would ever be willing to admit, but then again, there was no one around to see him. 

Or so he thought until he heard a scuffling sound from the loft above. Lex glanced up and saw nothing but shadows flitting over the cracked ceiling. Heard nothing else until the odd curse and grumble floated down, so strange coming from such a unusually pristine mouth. 

"Clark?" he called up toward the ceiling. "Is that you?"

"Lex?" A head covered with dark tousled hair peered down at him from over the long railing. "Hey, there. Come on up."

Lex carefully made his way up the rickety staircase, the one that never seemed sturdy enough. "Sorry to bother you, Clark. I just wanted to see for myself how you were doing. You seemed a little stressed out the last time we spoke."

He saw a tape gun in Clark's hand, both man and machine working to seal a huge brown box, ripped open at its seams. Lex received a sheepish grin in reply. "Yeah, I kind of was. But thanks ... everything's okay now."

"Are you sure?" Lex looked around with consternation. Flatscreen high-definition televisions, designer clothing, as well as a ski boat -- filled the narrow area of the loft. "Looks like you have a lot of rearranging to do."

"It's a lot of packing and returning, actually." The tape gun ripped across another long length of cardboard and Clark sighed. "Hopefully they'll take it all back."

"I see." A sidestep to the window to get out of Clark's way and Lex shivered as he watched a cobweb sway, quivering in the chill October breeze. "So, tell me. Did you buy all this stuff on sweet smiles and promises?"

He could almost _hear_ the flush of shame in Clark's voice. "No. My parent's credit card." 

Lex gingerly touched the trembling cobweb. It tore with surprising ease. "They must not have been too happy about that," he said, shaking the ripped silk from his fingers with a disgusted grimace. 

"They weren't." Another heavy sigh. "Oh ... shit."

Lex quickly turned around. "What's wrong?"

"This coat." Clark winced and held up the two-thousand dollar Hugo Boss black cashmere three-quarter length men's coat he'd worn the while visiting Lex the day before. The coat that nearly made Lex's eyes fall out of his head, more because of the man wearing it than anything else. "I can't return this."

It had been an -- interesting -- sight. "I should say not," Lex agreed wryly. "Most high-priced designers aren't very big on taking back individual items, especially not those classified as 'gently used."

Clark shook the coat hard, frustration lining his face. "Christ. What am I going to do?"

"Let me see it." Lex held out his hand and Clark hesitated before giving the coat to him. Lex shrugged it on and dark cloth swam around him in a loose black wave. He turned to study his reflection in Clark's full-length mirror -- an ancient wooden thing, forever standing in the loft's corner, the recipient of a million wondering reflections. 

The coat was far too big. Too black. Too much of everything. "It doesn't fit." Lex clutched at the overly long sleeves with convulsive little grabs of his fingertips. "But that's not a problem," he said quickly. "I can get it tailored."

Clark disagreed. "No. Don't do that. I'll try to get someone else to buy it."

"Who else around here is going to buy a coat that costs this much? No one." Lex struggled out of the reams of suffocating cloth. He folded it over his arm with practiced care. "I'll be wearing it by the weekend." He paused to wipe some sweat from his palms. "It's getting colder. I needed a new coat. You saved me the bother of getting it myself. I'll write a check for your parents tomorrow."

"Lex ..." Clark hesitated. He suddenly nodded, oddly humbled. Maybe the two-thousand dollar price tag held more weight than Lex thought. "Thanks. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. But whatever else you have stashed in here ..." Lex nodded toward the ski boat, garishly red in the loft's dull light. "I still can't figure out what you were planning to do with that thing."

"Neither can I." Clark looked morbidly ashamed. It was a strange look for him. "Honestly, I don't know what got into me."

Bitterness welled up, then broke apart inside of Lex and came out in an acidic rush. "If I'd known you were so eager to have toys to play with, Clark, I could have bought you anything you wanted," Lex snapped hotly. "You could have kept them in a room in the mansion, and we wouldn't have had to tell your parents about any of it. You could have come over and done whatever ... "

"I didn't want the toys, Lex," Clark cut him off abruptly. "I wanted ... " A pause. "I wanted to be something I wasn't. _Someone_ I wasn't." He shrugged. "And now, I have to pay the price for it."

"No, you won't," Lex sighed. He couldn't remember ever feeling so resigned, as if he were playing a role in an ancient play and there would be no denial ... not until the curtain fell. "Tell your mother to call me later. I have some things I want to talk to her about."

"Lex ..."

"Please, Clark. Just do as I ask."

"What about Dad?" Cautiously. "Would he be okay?"

Lex held onto the stairs' railing tightly as he descended, sharp splinters digging painfully into the palm of his hand. "I'd prefer your mother, only because she's more practical. But yes, either one of them is fine."

"Right. Um, Lex," Clark called after him, sounding contrite. "Are you sure you want that coat?"

Lex didn't turn around. He smoothed the black cashmere between his fingers. It felt like a spider's web. "Yes, Clark. I'm sure. It's more my style anyway, wouldn't you say?" 

Lex hurried down the rest of the stairs, making sure to be well out hearing in case Clark would try and call him back. Try and make him change his mind about who should be wearing what and why. 

Lex had his coat, his stolen black mantle, returned to him. Him, its rightful owner. 

He'd be damned if Clark would ever wear it again.

~*~

His phone rang later that evening. "Lex? Hi, this is Martha Kent."

"Mrs. Kent," Lex replied cordially. "Thanks for calling me. About those bills that Clark ran up last week. The ones that can't be refunded?"

"Yes?"

"Send them to my office. I'll take care of them."

"I can't let you do that, Lex." Her voice sounded stretched, like nickel wire over steel. "You know I can't." 

"I think you can, Mrs. Kent. I think you know why too."

He heard a quick inhale. Her voice, thick then, as if she was fighting back tears. "Lex, it's not your fault. Boys want what boys want sometimes and because Jonathan and I can't give him those things you have ..."

"It's not about desire, Mrs. Kent. It's about restraint," Lex said calmly. "Clark has to restrain himself more often than not. I don't. So please, just send me the bills." His knuckles whitened around the receiver. "Let me fulfill my role in our relationship. Our friendship. Please."

"It's not your role, Lex. Not if you don't want it to be."

"I want it to be. For Clark's sake. So send me the bills," he said. "Thank you, and goodnight. I'll be speaking to you soon."

Lex hung up quickly, before she could protest. He knew she would do as he asked. Martha Kent was a smart woman and she'd want what was best for her boy. 

Just as Lex did. And always would.

Even if he had to wear a black coat that would never really fit.

~*~

fin


	6. Snap

****

"SNAP" by ingrid

~*~

Martin Olsen knew it was going to be a shitty day, possibly from the second he got up. 

His boy Jimmy had what seemed to be the start of the flu, all aching stomach and pale face and he felt terrible leaving the little guy to shiver in bed, but Miriam had that covered, even if she complained that she always had to be the one who took days off from work to watch their son, but she knew what a press photographer's life was like, from the day she married him.

Or so he continually hoped.

Things went downhill from there, as rain and wind destroyed his five-dollar umbrella, then soaked through his thin overcoat and he'd just shaken the last drops from his arms when the Sections Editor called him into the office for his daily assignment.

"Lex Luthor. Metropolis General. Eleven a.m, but get there early. He always seems to draw a crowd," said Perry White, chewing on a cigar butt that had seen better days, maybe years.

"Wonder why," Olson returned dryly, only half kidding. Luthor the Younger was a damned brat with the press, insolent at best, violent at worst, especially to the paparazzi who'd stalked him relentlessly as a youth. "What's he there for? Have they finally learned how to transplant personalities?"

"Opening another wing. Some sort of rehab. I don't know, Carlton's covering the text. Just be sure you get anything unusual, which is a definite possibility. He's not the old hand his father was."

Martin laughed. "Lionel. He could unscrew a Pepsi bottle with his ass, that slick bastard. You know, he used to time my shutter so he could blink in sync with it, I swear. Never had one shot of him with his eyes closed ever."

"Yeah, yeah, we all miss him," Perry muttered. "Get going. Traffic is hell."

"Right." Martin quickly checked three of his lenses and tucked a spare flash in his bag just in case. Thirty rolls of film -- too much, but even too much was never enough. He tucked five more in his pockets, just in case. 

One crucial missed shot would be the end of his career.

Traffic was hell, and he was wet again when he shoved his way into the Metropolis General mezzanine. The usual crew was there, from The Inquisitor on down (not that you could get much lower than The Inquisitor) and Carrie Castle was lurking somewhere in the background, hovering, as was her wont even though she'd made managing editor years before.

She was something of a Luthor hound, her once-pretty face grown pinched with frustration at the secrets the Luthors never seemed to give up, or, if they did, the price was too high for even the most ambitious journalist to pay.

The city press never did find out exactly what happened to Roger Nixon after all.

A lackey was at the podium, and Olsen began to hit the shutter, just to check his lenses and flash meter. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today. If you don't mind, may I ask you to please come this way."

Olsen glanced at Carlton, who shrugged in reply. The herd followed the lackey down slightly less sterile halls and into what appeared to be a large conference room, altered to accommodate a luncheon party, with drinks and buffet tables and a number of good-looking waiters stood smiling, already holding out trays of champagne to the surprised crowd.

"Compliments of Mr. Luthor," said the lackey. "He'll be out in a few minutes. Enjoy."

Olsen tried not to laugh as he balanced a champagne glass between the three fingers not holding camera equipment and tossed the contents down with a gulp. 

Hey, it was the good stuff, and Olsen smacked his lips with appreciation. The smell of food began to waft through the air and the mood in the room lightened considerably. If Luthor was going to feed them, well that might be a different matter entirely.

A tap at the podium, and Olsen nearly dropped the glass in his haste to get his camera up, as Lex Luthor stood smiling under the retracted hospital lighting, the yellow glow more flattering than one would have thought atop a bald man just entering his thirties. 

He was dressed casually, in black was that a leather jacket? Whatever it was, it was expensive and shiny and soft looking, and paired with a T-shirt and slacks, even Olsen had to admit the guy had a flair for style. 

Over to the side, stood someone Olsen had never seen before at Luthor's press conferences. A tall fellow, really good-looking, dressed in camel suede and a matching black shirt, smiling angelically in Luthor's direction as the man behind the podium waited for the first flashes to die down. 

"Thank you for coming," said Luthor, bending a little to speak directly into the microphone. "As you might know from the press release, I'm here to dedicate this wing of Metropolis General to the city of Metropolis, in my mother's name. It will be called the Lillian Luthor Wing For Research and Treatment of Substance Abuse and Disease, and I'm very proud to be able to make this addition, in the name of science and public health."

A wild burst of snaps as Luthor straightened up and shook the hand of the department head, some doctor whose name Olsen hoped Carlton would get the spelling right. 

"And that's it from up here," Lex said. "I'm going to be getting something to eat now, and any questions you have, I'll be glad to answer but from the floor, if that's all right."

Olsen's jaw nearly hit his chest. A Luthor answering questions from the floor? Unheard of. He wasn't the only one struck silent as Lex gracefully stepped down from the stage, holding his hand out and motioning for the young man to follow suit. 

Both young men laughed, as Olsen raised his camera and just kept hitting the release. He was no longer listening to the surrounding buzz, he was concentrating instead on the story unfolding in front of his lens, the story that was his to tell versus the words the reporters would extract, transcribe and examine.

He told his story through his pictures. This was his art and his life and he would have no other, and he followed Luthor around the room, letting the moments evolve. 

Luthor kept talking with the reporters, still smiling, and the tall dark-haired young man didn't leave his side. Lex accepted a glass of champagne and offered it to his companion who refused it with a chuckle. More smiles then from Luthor, who was reaching surreptitiously behind with long fingers, so as to brush them along the large hand that was hovering somewhere near his waist. 

The shutter recorded the interaction, one frame at a time, and Olsen kept his eye trained, watching silently as other photographers pushed and pulled at each other, trying to gain better vantage.

He sidestepped them, camera down. The instrument of his trade could be either a compliment or a weapon, this he knew well, and if he wanted the best, most unique picture 

"Hey, Lex," he said, in his best "Yo, Joe!" voice. "Who's your friend?"

A moment of profound silence from the gathered journalists as Lex fixed Olsen with a keen look, eye meeting eye. There was tension, if only because of Luthor's reputation and temper and 

"This friend?" He reached out and pulled the young man to his side, arm around the taller man's waist, hand splayed over his stomach in an intimate touch. A huge smile followed -- a lover's smile. "This is Clark." He turned. "Wave to the camera Clark."

"Shut up, Lex," Clark whispered, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to stop beaming. His smile widened more, if that were possible, and the _flicshkt!_ of dozens of shutters went off at once.

"Clark's my companion," Lex exclaimed, laughingly. "And yes, that's c-o-m-p-a-n-I-o-n and no, you're not getting anything more than that."

As if we'd needed more than that, thought Olsen, almost dizzy from the sheer magnitude of the scoop. "Clark!" he called out. "Lex how about a kiss then? Come on guys, don't be shy. You look good together."

Luthor raised a thin eyebrow at him. "You think so, Olsen?"

"Sure!" What the hell. Olsen didn't give a shit who Luthor was sleeping with, as long as he got his snap. And, it was true, they did look good together, smiling and if Luthor got any happier, he'd probably have to change his name. 

Or maybe he already had. "Come on," Olsen wheedled. "Make some noise, guys. Show the world the romantic side of Lex Luthor."

At this, Lex laughed outright. His companion did as well. "Okay, Olsen. Put this in your darkroom and smoke it." With that, he turned in Clark's arms and entwined, they laughed again, before reaching in for a gentle, humorful lip-lock.

"That's great, guys," Olsen encouraged, praying with every part of his soul that his film wasn't going to run out. "Give us some more."

The other photographers cursed and shoved their way forward and yell out more encouragement, but Luthor waved them off. "I think that's quite enough for one afternoon, boys. How about some questions about the wing? I'll even take some LexCorp stuff, but if any of you ask about the aerospace plans "

To hell with aerospace, Olsen thought, practically running to the door, his cell phone in hand, hitting the speed dial frantically. He had snaps in his bag, and what snaps they were, and amid even all the chaos of his electrically charged brain, there was a tiny part of him impressed with this Luthor versus the old one. 

Lex Luthor had guts, that much Olsen had to admit, as Perry picked up his line, already yelling. Guts and there now was something new and impressive to be found in the Luthor legacy 

A man who wasn't afraid to blink. 

Not even in the camera's candid eye.

~*~

fin


	7. Empress

****

EMPRESS  
by ingrid

There's a ceremony to her life now, one that never existed until the moment she stood in front of her husband in the freezing cold, holding the Bible under his outstretched hand and wondering if the others before her had almost dropped it from their numb and aching fingers as he recited the vows.

_"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States ..."_

As a reporter, Chloe Sullivan had covered such ceremonies twice, standing in the crowd both times, commenting nastily on the First Lady's outfit to the other journalists standing there with steaming coffee in their hands and bored expressions on their faces. 

Look at her, will you? So gaudy ... so stiff. That hat, what the hell was she thinking? She's not going to last a minute in this town. God, look at her hair. She's a mess.

A shame that karmic payback was such a bitch.

_... and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend, the constitution of the United States._

It only took a minute, but to Chloe Sullivan-Luthor, First Lady of the United States, it felt like a lifetime.

There was a parade afterward, with hundreds of horses and displays, paid for by Lex himself and modeled on the extravaganza Ronald Reagan would have had, if the weather had cooperated. 

Chloe joked at a pre-ceremony party that Lex would make a weather machine before he'd let Mother Nature ruin his parade and was amused by the nervous laughter that followed. He'd simply kissed her hand and winked -- at least their little jokes had some privacy left.

They, however, didn't have any privacy at all.

Between the press and the Secret Service, not to mention the staffers who fed off of them like leeches sucking on animal flesh at a watering hole, they rarely got a moment alone. Time for them was stolen, like nickels from a child's bank and they'd actually had sex in the White House bathroom once, only minutes after the tour given to them by the previous First Couple.

"The Presidential Club," Lex breathlessly called it as she lifted her legs higher and bit his suit-clad shoulder, trying desperately not to scream out his name. The Secret Service knocked once to make sure they were all right, and Chloe came with visions of them storming in, guns drawn, only to see The President in his final throes of pleasure.

That wicked thought kept her going, all the way up to the strains of "Hail to the Chief" as played during their triumphant march down the plaza and to the White House.

It was at that moment the enormity of what they were facing sunk in. Hard.

She couldn't shake her fears off, not even while the final adjustments were made on her inaugural gown, a lavender and black creation Lex had partially designed himself, picking the exact shades he knew would compliment her best. 

Chloe wanted to laugh at the thought of the press catching _that_ juicy tidbit about the nation's new Commander in Chief, but the joke wasn't funny anymore. 

Not with the entire world at stake, hanging in the balance on their every utterance, look and movement.

Lex took it all in stride, as he did everything. He'd been convinced of his destined role in life since he'd taken the reigns of the fertilizer plant in Smallville, shoveling cow shit with Chloe's father, smiling seductively at her from afar. 

Slowly, he'd twined himself and his dreams around her, until she believed in them as if they were her own, fighting her way through every step of the process with the same dedication she'd once shown to her own career. Joining him in the endless travel, the terrors and triumphs, the back-room deals that would have made Machiavelli shrink back in fear. 

Chloe survived all that and more, sometimes with a ruthlessness that often surprised her with the ferocious joy it engendered.

And to think, people asked her if she missed having a job.

Superman showed up to the Inauguration, of course, floating discreetly to one side, probably the first and last time he ever let attention be deflected away from his very big, very blue self. Lex had asked her the night before if they should invite the Man of Steel to the Inauguration Ball and she'd casually replied that Boy Scouts should only be invited to weenie roasts in the woods.

That received such a passionate look, Chloe felt the tingle straight down to her toes. 

Lex didn't like Superman very much and that was all right. 

Because Chloe didn't like him at all.

He reminded her of Clark Kent, a creature fueled on self-righteous angst and extremely condescending to the frailties of the human heart. The alien part of him fascinated her, but in the same way it did Lex and they'd joked darkly more than once about laboratories and tables with wide, green straps attached.

When Lex came into his wife's dressing chamber that evening, he was resplendent in a tailored tuxedo, his eyes as bright as winter stars. 

Chloe's last stubborn strand of hair was firmly tucked into place and she stood before him, feeling oddly shy, as if she were the same insecure girl stuck back in the old cow town and he was the gorgeous man who lived in the castle down the road, making her heart pound with every step he took through the streets he owned.

He held her chin in his fingers and lifted it. "You're beautiful. You are everything I've ever wanted."

Shivering with happiness, she smiled. "Right back at you." 

A huge grin and suddenly, something very bright dangled from his hand. He motioned for Chloe to turn around and she did, feeling a cool clasp of metal wind around her neck.

She looked in the mirror and examined the gem-encrusted medallion hanging above her heart. It was an odd design, but appropriate -- an eagle on a staff, surrounded by stars. 

"It's an exact replica of a necklace the Emperor Augustus gave to his wife on what is assumed to be his crowning day. They call it "Livia's Eagle," Lex explained, softly kissing the nape of Chloe's neck.

"Really?" Chloe fingered the soft gold, a sharp edge of diamond biting into the pad of her finger. "And this Livia? Were she and Augustus happy?"

"Oh yes," Lex sighed against her skin. "Right up until the very end. They lived happily, happily ever after."

Chloe smiled radiantly, and somewhere in the distance, the marching band began to play.

It was the beginning of their happily ... happily ... ever after.

~*~  
fin


End file.
